


double, double toil and trouble

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Promptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-25 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20920082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: A collection of ficlets written for aosficnet's promptober challenge.





	1. carving pumpkins

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the prompts are very, very culture-specific which means that I probably won't fill them all.  
Title from Macbeth (4.1). 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

They're at Morrisons'. 

The place is crowded, packed with people who are doing the shopping for the upcoming week. A cacophony of sounds that lift themselves into the air - children begging their parents to buy a package of six chocolate cookies, freshly baked ones that are tidily displayed next to the fruit section, and young couples discussing the menu for a Saturday night dinner with friends. 

There's also old ladies that slowly roll their shopping carts only to place them right in the middle of the aisle as they stop and talk with old acquaintances - they look happy and ecstatic at the thought of having met one of their friends by accident and such random meetings, always unexpected no matter how many times they occurred in the past, bear an aura of meant to be. 

Evelyn catches several conversations as she stands next to their shopping cart, looking at her father as he picks up six red beet and raisin rolls from the bakery section, the ones they're going to have for dinner along with fresh salad and some Stilton. A couple of students walk past her, intensely discussing their dissertations as they pick up a package of scones and two boxes of Pakoras, and she hears something about Irish theatre and a collection of plays that has a cow printed on the cover before the two young girls disappear behind the shelves.

Without losing sight of her father, she walks to the "free fruit for kids" box - the one that invites children to take one free fruit per visit. It's a difficult choice between a sweet clementine and a banana, but she picks one of the latter and peels it, paying attention not to stain her pink coat. 

"Do you want a bite?" Evelyn asks her father as he drops the bread rolls and the vegetables into the shopping cart.

"No, thank you. You eat that." he pauses and looks at the shopping list he's holding, studying it carefully. "Do you think we should pick up some crumpets for your mother?"

Evelyn shrugs. "Dad?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Can we get one?" She says and points at the paper box that holds some pumpkins. It's bright pink with dark outlines of cats and witches riding on their broomsticks. On top of the box, there's a sign that promises pumpkins for £2.

Fitz looks at his daughter and sighs, dropping a package of crumpets into the shopping cart. "Why?"

"Bhiodh snèipean air am falamhachadh, is air an cleachdadh mar lòchrain, is aodainn eagalach orra, gus na creutairean os-nàdarrach a chumail fada air falbh, ach air sgàth ’s gur e puimceanan a bu chumanta ann an Ameireaga nuair a dh’imrich Gàidheil à Èirinn is à Alba ann, b’ e sin a thòisich iad air cleachdadh.”

"Dè tha sin a' mionaigheadh?" he stops. " Tha mi tro chèile- Wait, do you mean pumpkin carving?"

Evelyn nods and smiles. It's a crooked smile that shows her missing teeth and it usually works wonders especially when the request is affordable and justified unless she does it with aunt Bobbi and uncle Hunter for they always find it impossible to resist. 

"We can carve them as soon as we get home and display them in the garden. And we don't have to buy tealights because we have those mama puts in her tea warmer... a bhith a’ cumail nan sìthichean is taibhseachan fada bhon taigh."

Fitz shakes his head and jokingly says, "You do have us all wrapped around your little finger don't you?"

They laugh. A nasal sound that starts with a snort, she sees a lady pass by and smile at them.

"Ler toil?" she asks. "Please."

"Alright then, you can take one."

"A dhà,” she corrects him. “There’s two of us now, me agus Tiffany”

“A h-aon.” He pauses. “You may take one or neoini. None. Tiffany is a baby, she can’t carve pumpkins.”

"Maybe not," says Evelyn. "All she ever does is sleep and eat and look at the world with her big brown eyes- and she can't even see half the things she pretends to see. I checked. Maybe she'd like to have a pumpkin or maybe Gereon and Tassie want one. Or mom wants one."

"A h-aon," Fitz repeats, with slightly more emphasis.

She pouts and sticks her tongue out. It's a simple gesture that makes her father laugh loudly yet again, the same gesture that makes her sister Tiffany gurgle out of happiness; Both things warm her heart and make her grin - such happiness, when a long time ago it seemed like there would never be this much.

"Chan ith mi peapagan- I have no intention to eat pumpkin for a month and I'm sure that your mother would agree with me."

"Chan eil no mise. Snèapan?”

"And we're definitely not going to buy turnips, Evelyn. Susie is the only one who likes them and I'm not going to buy them just to feed them to our dog. Don't try your luck, young lady, unless, of course, you prefer turnips to Freddo biscuits."

"No, chan eil me. You can't have snèapan le deochan teth, yuk."

"Thought so. Speaking of hot drinks, we need to buy some tea."

"So, can I get the pumpkin?"

Fitz nods. "Go on then, but remember a h-aon. Just one.”


	2. fall drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd.

She sits at her desk, a history book in front of her and at her feet lie Susie and Gereon who lazily wiggle their tails every time she stretches her hand out to pet them. Outside the sky is pitch black and the wind is howling. The branches that scratch against her window, rhythmically, sound like a monster asking to be let in to take shelter from such dreadful weather.

It started right after sheepdog training. The training itself went well and helped her focus, take her mind off things. Then, on her way to her father's car, Susie happily trotting behind her, she noticed the street to be filled with earthworms and took it upon herself to save them all - carefully carrying them back to the grass. And while she was picking them up, her father had urged her to move faster, his voice louder and louder, losing his temper because he had work to do and there was the shopping and it was going to rain. And he told her that perhaps she should start to put the same effort into her math homework instead of wasting it on saving those disgusting worms.

"Evelyn?" Her father asks, his voice followed by a persistent knock on the door. "Can I come in?"

"Fàg mi leam fhèin."

He opens the door, and she turns around ever so slightly, enough to see him hold one of the Dunoon mugs in front of him.

"Tha mi a' cantainn sin," her father's voice is hesitant as he speaks. "I'm here to say that- Tha mi duilich. I'm sorry."

It's his fault. He's being so selfish, although the word sounds too strong and harsh in her head. All those worms. Suppose they were killed by someone stepping on them or a car driving over them. Suppose they had friends who liked to live with them in one of the farm's compost heaps. Suppose they were never to come back and everyone else would end worrying about them without ever getting an answer or an explanation. Suppose they blamed her.

And he doesn't know anything, does he? He doesn't know that- Bha iad uile a' cagrasaidh. They all gossiped at school, on the streets and in the shops. One person told another that it was a pity that Leopold Fitz still considered himself to be married to a woman who left him with a young girl. Young and handsome as he was, they'd marry him and more. And suppose she tried to contradict them and they looked at her and condescendingly said _if you say so_ as if her father was a liar and every story a farce. Suppose her grandmother had said the same thing, albeit more subtly, implying that her father and her mother should just get a divorce like real people did. Suppose her grandparents had told her not to speak about her feelings, not allow them to roll and rapid, that that was Englishness. Suppose such an emphasis on Englishness was somehow meant to mock and diminish her Scottishness even though she quite liked being Scottish and couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to be it. Imagine the memory coming up in her mind every time she had to speak a sentence, fuelling her desire not to speach such a wreched language ever again.

"Evelyn?"

"Leònadh tu an duine às gràdh leat!" She pauses. She knows that she could stop there and let him wonder about her words, let him dismiss them, but rage is blinding her and she's holding back so much anger it feels as if she might explode. Instead, she says in perfect English, "You always hurt the ones you love, that's why mom left you!"

The silence between them is violent and her father goes pale. He looks at her in bewilderment, his mouth half opened, as if waiting for her to take it back. All she wants to say is that she's had a bad day and a bad week and that she misses her mother and wants her back, but before she can add anything, her father carefully places the mug on the drawer.

"Cùm do theanga!" he yells, his voice echoes around the room. The use of Gaelic is more indication that she crossed a line than him yelling at her. Tears spring to her eyes as Fitz repeats himself. "Shut up. Shut up!"

For a moment Fitz looks at her, his hand shaking, and then he leaves, quietly closing the door behind him. Tears start to roll down her cheeks and she sobs, her whole body shaking. Evelyn reaches the bed, hugs her Paddington Bear and Gruffalo and wipes the snot dripping from her nose with her jumper’s sleeve.

As soon as she has calmed down a little, but with her eyes still filled with tears, she gets up and takes the mug of hot chocolate from the drawer. The brown liquid oscillates at the sudden movement and almost lands on the carpet.

“Tassie, Gereon, come on-”

Followed by her dogs she walks into the corridor and then down the stairs until she finds herself in the kitchen. Evelyn leans against the doorframe, the floor cold under her feet, and looks at her father standing in front of the kettle with Paddington in his arms.

“Dad?” She asks hesitantly. “Tha mi a' cantainn sin… tha mi duilich”

He turns around. “Are you ready to have a civil conversation about what’s bothering you?”

Evelyn nods and walks to him, leaning her head against his arm.

Outside the grass is covered with dead leaves - a sea of orange, yellow and red - and the rain is pouring, hitting the windows almost perpendicular. It’s a deluge and it promises flooded streets and cancelled rail services.

“Deochan teth,” he says, pouring some water into his cup. “Me and your mom used to make a warm cup of tea as a peace offering. I remember making one after she came back from an alien planet, she was terrified of telling the truth.”

“Why?”

“It seems ridiculous now, but that’s a story for another time. We may even have some Freddo biscuits left.”

“Really?”

“Secret stash,” he replies. “In the cabinet, behind the cups.”

“Dad?” she asks as they sit down. “I didn’t mean to say that thing about mom. If anything she left because-”

“Don’t.” He cuts her off as he puts the Freddo biscuits on a plate. “It wasn’t because of you. Never that.”

She takes one of the biscuits, nibbling at it, the Cadbury chocolate melting in her mouth.

“Evelyn, we have to do something about your math grades.”

“Math makes my head hurt.”

“Your math’s teacher makes my head hurt. You can’t just work on the stuff you like and ignore the rest.”

“That’s unfair.” She sighs. “I hate math and I hate science.”

“Maybe so, but you cannot not study them. It doesn’t work like that.”

“If my math grades get better can we get another cat and a pony?” 

“A cat, maybe, definitely not a pony. But grades have to be better and stay that way.”

She nods and takes a sip of hot chocolate. “Dad, is mom ever going to come back?”

Fitz gulps and momentarily looks away. Then, he says, “I hope so, darling, I really hope so. I need you to know that we didn’t have you on a whim or whatever people are saying. Was selfish? Maybe, but we put our lives on hold for such a long time. SHIELD ruined our lives if I may say so, there was a lot of pain and sacrifice, but there was beauty too. Your mom didn’t want to leave, we had a life now. A real-life and a family. We had been able to resume and- I know it’s not easy for you and I want-”

He sniffs and looks at her. Then he continues, “This has been going on for a while and I was blind enough not to notice. Evelyn, who told you to keep it all inside?”

“Granny?”

“I might have to have a word with her. Gosh, those people. Those people, I cannot believe it! Evelyn, I need you to speak up when you’re upset. Please? Promise me that you won’t bottle up your feelings from now on.”

“I promise,” she whispers.

“So will you tell me what happened?” he asks. “Maybe we can fix it?”

She nods and tells him everything.


	3. halloween decorating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd.

"Pray tell, what are those supposed to be?" asks Fitz.

Inside the car's trunk, there's three hampers labelled _ Fortnum & Mason _ . Traditional wickers, complete with leather buckles: They vary in size and colour, but the logo is the same and not overlookable printed as it is in capital letters on the front side of each hamper. The shopping bags and bottles of Irn-Bru that are beside them look poor and irrelevant, worlds meeting - there's something hilarious in looking at such a superfluous expense next to their old and worn out orange Sainsbury bags that read _ I'm strong and sturdy _, the ones with the elephant on them.

"Those?" she asks back, pointing at the hampers. "Those are a gift from my parents. One is for the girls, it's got Halloween stuff in it - sweets and other things like that."

"How- Why?"

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Fitz." She pauses, looking herself around. It seems strange that her daughters are not there to greet her, even though it is late evening and around the time they usually sit down and watch some telly. And not having Susie and Gereon bark at the entrance gate is even odder and promises trouble.

"Where are the girls?"

"In the kitchen. They're quite... busy." He stops. "Yes, I'd say they're busy."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing." He shrugs and kisses her, his lips brushing against hers. "The real question is how much did your parents spend on those."

"I really don't want to know, but I think they may have spent a little more than a monkey."

"Christ."

"I know, but it's their money and they can do whatever they want to do with it. And I'm much more comfortable this way rather than having random transfers with four zeros." She pauses and smiles at him. "I think my parents are convinced that we're starving or that there aren't any supermarkets around here. Or maybe they think that we cannot possibly live without this much _Fortnum & Mason_ stuff."

"Hmm. Makes you wonder how we managed to survive all these years. How did we survive in space without a £10 bottle of Beetroot Ketchup?"

"That's six," she replies. "Not ten."

"That's six," he mocks her, doing his best at imitating her voice. "God, you sound like your parents. How did it go?"

"I have no idea how they managed to stay married this long, papa says that the secret is sleeping in different beds on opposite sides of the house."

"I could never sleep in a different room, Jemma. Sleep in a different room and not have the best part of my day happening as soon as I open my eyes- what?"

"Here I was thinking that I'd be forced to sleep on the sofa now that the secret is out." She laughs, leaning her forehead against his. "My mother's aunt lets you know that she's quite glad that we decided not to get a divorce, for people like us don't get a divorce, and that I ultimately came home to you, even better now that there's a third child on the way. And my own aunt asked how our farm is doing. Daily."

"Didn't know you wanted to divorce me. Here I was like fool thinking that you spent four years lost in time with our former colleagues, it's a frightful sell if you ask me." He jokes and kisses her. Languidly, a series of pecks until he runs the tip of his tongue on her lips and she opens her mouth. There's longing and emotion, confidence and love. 

She feels his arms wrap around her, pulling her closer to him.

"I've missed you. All of you."

"We missed you too, but we partied the whole time and drowned our sorrows by drinking Irn-Bru. And we never ate our vegetables, it seemed the perfect way to get you back." He pauses. "You missed five rounds of Tiffany versus broccoli."

Jemma laughs. The sound bubbles up at the back of her throat and comes out with a snort, her whole body shaking. 

"I have no idea how we managed to stay apart for four years, the past two weeks felt like a lifetime. How did Tiffany take it?"

"Rather well after the first couple of nights. Then one time Evelyn told her not to complain too much because she had it worse, with you having been away for years and never calling us on the phone. Now that made Tiffany cry for almost an hour, she was inconsolable and-"

"What an Evelyn thing to say."

Fitz nods. "Telling her cùm do theanga didn't work, so she promised her sister some ice-cream and we had to walk three miles with the dogs to get some ninety-nines."

"Sounds like quite the adventure."

"It was. It really was." He pauses. "Tha gaol agam ort. Tha gràdh mo chridhe agam ort. I love you very much."

"Love you too." She kisses him. "I thought some nice lady would come to rescue you."

"Hundreds of them, you should have seen the garden. I'm afraid Evelyn fought them all off."

"Lucky me," she says. "I told you, you're irresistible. You drive them all wild."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Maybe so. Maybe you'll get lucky tonight."

Fitz snorts and is about to kiss her again when Tiffany runs out of the house yelling "Ma!"

Her daughter she runs out of the house in her slippers, stepping right into a puddle and ignoring it, with her mouth covered with yoghurt that is slowly dripping down her chin and onto her jumper.

Fitz steps back and Jemma kneels down.

"Hello, you!" She says, picking her daughter up. "Oh my, how you've grown. Where's your sister?"

"Inside. Decorating." Tiffany pauses, burying her head into the crook of Jemma's neck.

The cold yoghurt is sticky and gross against her skin, though Jemma ignores it as she holds her daughter close.

"Uh-oh. Surprise."

"Not anymore, I guess," says Evelyn as she leans against the door. "Why do you have to ruin everything?"

"Didn't hear a thing, darling," replies Jemma, only to see her daughter roll her eyes and go back inside. "What's going on?"

"Tomhais," happily blurts out Tiffany as she wiggles in her arms, until she's back on the ground and allowed to run inside.

"Let's get inside, shall we?" asks Fitz. "I'll carry the hampers."

"Then hand me the shopping, will you?"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm pregnant, not an invalid. And there's nothing in them other than salad, some bread and a couple of pieces of cheddar," she replies, stretching her hand out. 

Their fingers touch as they reach for the content in the car's trunk and they allow themselves a couple of extra time for their fingers to touch - such a small and precious gesture, his skin warm against hers. Their golden wedding bands catch the afternoon light in the process. Safe. Alive. Together.

As they step into the kitchen, Evelyn and Tiffany both yell, "Surprise!"

The kitchen is filled with Halloween decorations: cardboard garlands picturing ghosts and pumpkins are taped on the cabinets and on the kitchen table lie a bunch of plastic spiders that the cats seem quite interested in, moving them with their paws as if to see whether they're alive or not. On the table, the bottle of Irn-Bru has been relabeled and there are stickers of witches and cats on it. Dinner is nicely displayed all around it: Chips, crisps, pizza, and a salad - all waiting to be eaten.

"This is- This is nice!" says Jemma. "I like it."

"Oidhche Shamhna shona dhut," says Evelyn. "Agus ceud mìle fàilte, ma."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A monkey: £500.


	4. haunted house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for 2minutes2midnight.
> 
> unbeta'd.

“...brochan lom, tana lom, brochan lom sùghain, brochan lom, ‘s e tana lom, ‘s e brochan lom sùghain,” sings Fitz as she enters the living room

He’s sitting on the sofa, baby Máiréad in his arms, and he cradles her gently. Every now and then he looks up to look at Evelyn and Tiffany in the garden, playing with the autumn leaves that cover the grass and their two dogs.

Jemma doesn’t interrupt him, just looks at him. She feels love overwhelming her and her heart skips a beat as Máiréad gurgles happily: Years later and it still feels as if she and Fitz caught happiness by chance. Such joy after miserable and sorry years at SHIELD, not to mention all the time apart. It seems strange now, looking back, to have missed the moment when they could have said no when they could have just left. It seems strange not to have skipped the inanities sooner, not to have realized it in time that this life, this future, was more appealing than a life spent working in the field.

“Seo an rud a gheibheamaid o nighean gobh' an dùine, brochan lom 's e tana lom, 's e brochan lom sùghain,” Fitz goes on. His voice is soft and a little bit out of tune and it fills the living room, making her smile.

“The porridge song. I say, why on earth are our daughters so obsessed with it?”

“The porridge song is fun, that’s why. You don’t get it, it’s probably the English thing,” says Fitz as he his head around to look at her. 

“I thought we had exhausted that argument,” she jokes.

“Then I didn’t get the memo.” He pauses. “Did the girls wake you? They were being rather loud earlier.”

“No, don’t worry. I slept like a rock.” She stops, walking towards him. “Well, I slept well. The headache is gone, that is to say, I no longer feel as if my head is going to explode.”

“I’m glad to hear that. There’s some spagbol left if you’re hungry.”

She smiles. “Thank you, care to keep me company?”

“Of course. Do you want a cuppa?”

“Yes, why not. You should ask the girls if they want anything.”

“Already did. They said they were too busy as if I was blind and didn’t see they were playing.”

Jemma laughs as she sits down at the kitchen table. “So, what did I miss?”

“Not much. Evelyn announced that she’d like to visit a Haunted House. I have no idea what Bobbi’s been telling her but I don’t think they’re talking about the same thing,” he says, placing Máiréad back into her cradle. The action is met by a series of indistinguishable sounds of protest that echo around the air and fill the kitchen as Fitz puts on the kettle and puts the spagbol back on the table.

He kisses the top of her head and places a hand on her shoulder. For a moment they stay like that, enjoying a couple of minutes of peace and quiet, and then he sits down next to her and takes Máiréad back in his arms.

“Why?” asks Jemma.

“I’m pretty sure Bobbi was talking about those Halloween amusement things that are so popular in the States. Evelyn just opened the National Trust’s website asking whether we could go and visit Blickling Hall next time we’re in Sheffield. Apparently, it has Anne Boleyn’s ghost riding up to the house, in a coach drawn by a headless horseman, with her own head on her lap. The moment the coach arrives in front of the house it vanishes into thin air,” he explains.

“Interesting. Strange that she didn't come up with Borely Rectory, that one's the most haunted house in Britain, and we used to come up with the most ridiculous ghost stories. What did Tiffany say?”

“That she wants to see ghosts too. Which is hilarious considering that sometimes she’s scared of her own shadow.”

“What did you say?”

“That it’s a three hours drive from Sheffield and I’m not doing that, you know that Evelyn pukes as soon as she sees a car.” He pauses. “She just shrugged and said we could visit Treasurer’s House because that one’s in Yorkshire. It’s got marching Roman military phantoms and she does so love the Romans with their lances, round shields and short swords.”

Jemma laughs. “I bet you can hear the trumpets.”

“That’s what Evelyn said.”

She sighs. Last week it was the Celts, now it’s all about the Romans. It’s hard to keep up when their daughter’s interests vary depending on the day and the week and probably the planet’s disposition around the sun. There she is going to bed thinking about the middle ages and waking up obsessed with the Romans.

“Did you know that during the fourth century AD the Sixth Legion was withdrawn from York and replaced by troops that carried distinctive round shields?” asks Fitz.

“I did not.”

“Neither did I. Tiffany said something about calling ourselves geniuses, she took her sister’s side and there was no dissuading them from the idea of a one day trip.” He pauses. “I don’t think they're too happy to spend a weekend in Sheffield.”

“And who is?” she asks. The mere idea of seeing her relatives and having to listen to their nonsense was enough to drive anyone as far away from Sheffield as possible. “I know Evelyn says that she likes it when my father takes her to the observatory, but I feel like most of the time she just wants my parents to give her some pocket money.”

Fitz laughs loudly. “I heard her trying to convince your aunt to get her a pony for our farm.”

“Oh dear, she really is a little self-serving opportunist. We might have to talk to her about that. Then again, my parents do have a lot of money.”

“Jemma!”

“What?”

“I thought you were against those random checks-”

“I am! It’s not like we need that money, we both work. Well, I’ll go back to work eventually. And my grandmother left me some money and I didn’t need that while I worked for SHIELD, did I? What was I going to do, spend it in space?” She pauses. “Listen, I love my parents, and dearly so, but I shall never- You know what they say, don’t you?”

“You should ask me if I care.”

“And do you?”

“No, and neither should you. We’ll never see eye to eye with them about money, about how to raise our children and any number of other things.” He pauses. “Listen, we see them what... twice a year? This said, I think we should definitely go and visit Treasurer’s House when we’re there next week, I would hate to miss those Roman ghosts.”

“Fitz!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the porridge song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrePSyQqUxs)


	5. telling ghost stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd.

"Why Hamlet though?" asks Bobbi before she takes another sip of red wine.

They're having dinner. It was supposed to be celebratory one, after the success of Hunter's production of the famous Shakespearian play, but it turned out to be some sort of Halloween party as suggested by Fitz and Jemma's eldest daughter. The fancy courses quite in contrast with the paper decorations hanging on the walls and improvised props covering the table.

"Why not Macbeth? It's got witches in it."

"That's actually a funny story," replies Fitz. 

Such a simple and cryptic answer makes both Jemma and Hunter snort. Their faces are distorted into a grimace of amusement as they giggle under their breath. For a moment Fitz glares at them, ready to go on with the story, but Hunter and Jemma make the mistake of looking at each other and a wave of laughter hits them both - loud and nasal, Jemma throws her head back, her whole body shaking, and Hunter's eyes fill with tears.

"We were doing that Čechov retelling, the one that got hammered. It was the very beginning, we had just finished casting people and-" says Hunter and presses his lips together to hold back another laugh. "We were doing that Čechov retelling and Fitz was-"

"Tipsy."

"Drunk," says Jemma. "Fitz, you were most definitely drunk."

"A funny drunk. We were all pissed, mind you," explains Hunter. "And someone, probably Milton, asked us whether we knew some ghost stories."

"Ah."

"So everyone's coming up with something and Fitz-" Jemma chuckles and places a hand on Fitz's. "Fitz starts to tell the story of Hamlet with all the names and such. And Milton keeps nodding and saying what an interesting story it is."

"Old sport, that's such an interesting thing. Where did you hear it?" says Hunter, trying his best to imitate their former classmate. "And Fitz- Fitz replies with some gibberish nonsense and completely forgets that Hamlet was written by William Shakespeare and Saxo Grammaticus before him."

"I did not!" Fitz protests, though it might as well be how they're saying. All he remembers of that night is Jemma sitting way too close to him and him thinking about how preposterous her casting was, how she was probably going to end up ruining the whole production because she had never been to drama school, because she was another one of those people who managed to get into acting because they had connections. But he also remembers, and quite well indeed, that all but irresistible impulse to kiss her and ask her about whether or not she fancied going back to his room with him. Which he didn't not even in the following day, the nausea and the terrible headache standing in the way.

"You did! Though you could have told Milton that you wrote Hamlet yourself and he'd have said  _ jolly nice, old sport _ ," Jemma cuts him off.

Bobbi laughs and says, "So when the time came you went for Hamlet?"

"That," says Hunter. "Fitz's most famous ghost story."

For a moment there's complete silence as they eat their desserts. Then Bobbi says, "Sounds like you had fun working together. It sounds like you had a good time."

"Of course we had." Fitz pauses. "I mean, I trust Hunter as much as I trust Jemma. Professionally and personally."

"And unlike me, he never thought Hunter to be too much of a snob or too English," jokes Jemma. "Those first couple of months were ridiculous."

"What do you mean ridiculous? We always had a terrific time together."

"Terrific?" asks Hunter. "Fitz, you were tired all the time."

Bobbi looks at them in bewilderment. It's all a mess of voices, three people contradicting each other and speaking on top of each other and referring to different things. The three of them with their mawkish sense of being wholesomely in the right, too stubborn to admit that they might be wrong. It seems as if she missed a lifetime worth of history and such a strange and intriguing world made of memories, friendship and playful teasing seems impossible to access: Each word, each sentence has a context of its own and Hunter, Jemma and Fitz know it well and quite well indeed. 

"Yeah, no," says Fitz as soon as he notices her confusion. "I mean, by the time we started rehearsing Hamlet, I just had my second child. I? Jemma, my wife. My wife!"

Fitz smiles at Jemma and takes her hand. For a moment he stops talking as his fingers lace with Jemma's, basking in the feeling of happiness and elation. Then he adds, "Though at that point she wasn't my wife. Long story."

Looking back now, it feels as if his relationship with Jemma was always an odd one. All steps and achievements out of order, pure chaos and the two of them unsure what to do and what to say, always tiptoeing around each other, deferring and agreeing, hardly ever getting to the point.

"And I was exhausted," Fitz goes on.

"But that was when you wrapped-" Hunter cuts him off.

"No, yes, it was the year before last, because Eilidh was about to turn five and there was-"

"Yeah, but they commissioned the play when-"

"We should talk about that another time because it's quite the story," adds Jemma.

"No, go on." Bobbi pauses for a moment, looking at Hunter's friends. "Please."

"So Jemma had just given birth to Brìde and Eilidh was about to start school so that was a handful. And rehearsals for Hamlet were something like-" says Fitz as he tries to imitate a confused and sleepy version of himself. "Hunter would just yell  _ wake up! _ and hand me coffee. The first weeks are a blur, I can't recall anything about them other than that infinite amount of coffee I consumed. And it seemed unfair to complain because Jemma... she had just given birth and I couldn't just go to her and say  _ I'm not going to do that because I'm an actor and I'm tired.  _ And I could have said no to Hunter, but thankfully he was always quite ready to yell-"

"Wake up!"

"...Every five minutes or so." Fitz laughs loudly. "So it turned out fine."


	6. trick or treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

"When's da coming back?" asks Tiffany. She's sitting on the floor in the living room, playing with some Lego Duplo and carefully building what she planned to be a weather station for one of her stuffed animals - though the Lego construction itself looks more like a medieval ruin, leaning to the right and missing several pieces.

"Soon," says Jemma from the kitchen. Her figure is partially hidden by the fridge and her voice is muffled. "He's just gone out to buy some things we need for dinner."

Tiffany looks up, trying to spot her mother, but Jemma's figure is partially hidden by the fridge and all she can see from her place on the carpet is an elbow and the glimpse of Jemma's ponytail. The answer is less than satisfactory, dismissive even, and doesn't put her heart at ease.

"I want da!" she says with exaggerated emphasis and a high-pitched voice that usually precedes some whining and the occasional tantrum. 

"He's coming back soon. Before lunch, Tiffany, and we're about to have lunch so it won't be long now. He'd have called and he just went to buy some fish-"

"Why?" asks Tiffany.

Evelyn sighs from the sofa. Her sister was at an age where every sentence was met by a question, usually taking the form of a short  _ why  _ whose final diphthong she was able to stretch for the longest of times, imploring for an answer. Why this, why that, the conversation could go on for hours on end: Insatiable curiosity, her sister was hardly ever satisfied by a simple  _ because. _ Though it has to be said, she thinks, that the most entertaining thing in the world was feeding Tiffany with answers that had nothing to do with the original topic and only led the conversation further astray. The face her father made whenever he didn't know which way to turn anymore was one of the funniest things in the world.

"Granny's coming," says Evelyn. "She's staying with us for a couple of days, remember?"

"Why?"

"Because she wants to meet Máiréad. It's been a while, we hardly saw each other this year," explains Jemma, rejoicing at the thought of having some alone time with Fitz. Time not interrupted by crying or barking or screaming or requests for help. "She promised to take you on a one-day trip, aren't you excited?"

Tiffany is just about to open her mouth again, when Evelyn cuts her off and says, " T ha gu leòr gu leòr, cùm do theanga."

"Evelyn."

"And it's not like da's not coming back," says Evelyn, completely ignoring her mother. "Why do you have to keep asking!"

"Evelyn!" yells Jemma, repeating herself. "You can't go on saying stuff like that to your sisters!"

"Why? It's true! Da's been away for less than two hours, he'll come back soon. And it's unfair that he took Máiréad with him! She's a baby, she doesn't need to go to the shops! And it's so boring and dull here without here."

"Da!" Tiffany pauses and studies the Lego elephant in her hands, turning it around and looking at it from every side as if trying to figure out something vitally important. Then her gaze meets Evelyn and the Halloween book she's reading, the one that explains the history of Samhain through the years, and she asks, "Why do persons trick and treat?"

“For the same reason they carve pumpkins,” Jemma replies dismissively from the kitchen.

“’s gur e puimceanan a bu chumanta ann an Ameireaga, ma!” all but yells Evelyn. Then, carefully articulating each syllable, she adds, “Snèipean. Bhiodh snèipean air am falamhachadh, is air an cleachdadh mar lòchrain, is aodainn eagalach orra. It’s turnips. Turnips is where it's at, the pumpkin’s an American thing.”

Jemma sighs dramatically and jokingly rolls her eyes at her eldest daughter and her intolerance towards everything American. It was a miracle that she was still fond of Bobbi. “That never stopped you from carving one, did it though?”

“I’m just saying.” Evelyn pauses and puts her book down. “Why does everything have to be so American nowadays? I’m tired, ma! They’re everywhere and they’re annoying.”

Tiffany giggles delighted and then looks at her sister and says, “Pumpkins! Why?”

“Gus na creutairean os-nàdarrach a chumail fada air falbh,” Evelyn goes on, caring very little about her sister’s understanding of her words. “a bhith a’ cumail nan sìthichean is taibhseachan fada bhon bhaile, bhiodh daoine a’ cur seann aodach, pìosan bèin is aghaidhean-coimhich orra, a’ feuchainn ri a bhith eagalach, gus nach biodh na sìthichean a’ dol faisg orra, is bhiodh a’ chlann a’ dol mun cuairt bho thaigh gu taigh gus airgead no biadh fhaighinn bho na nàbaidhean an dèidh a bhith a’ seinn rann no dhà dhaibh. To keep all supernatural creatures away from town, kids walked around asking for money and singing a few verses. And they wore old clothes to look scary.”

“Creutairean os-nàdarrach?” The words leave Tiffany’s mouth in an indistinguishable gurgle that sounds very much like the sounds their sister Máiréad does when she wants something or when she’s happy.

“Sìthichean. Fairies.” Evelyn pauses, then lowering her voice and walking to her sister with her arms stretched out she says, “Nuair a bhuannaich na Gàidheil Èirinn, chaidh na sìthichean dhan t-Saoghal Shìos. And they’re ready to come and get you, just like this-”

She imitates a battle between the Irish and the Fairies, doing her best to add the most gruesome sounds. Then she starts to tickle her sister on her belly and they end up rolling around the floor laughing until they’re both out of breath and Tiffany’s laughter turns into sounds of protest.

“Sìthichean a’ ruith air feadh an àite, agus na cumhachdan draoidheil air fàs.” She pauses. “You’ll see them if you look carefully, everywhere, running around, free from the underworld. They will be ere the set of sun, upon the heath!”

The mere idea seems delightful, Tiffany’s face lights up as she runs to her mother, happily chanting “Sìthichean, sìthichean, sìthichean.”

“No! Not like the ones you know, Tiff!” Evelyn pauses. “‘S urrainn do sìthiche dealbh sa m bith fhaighinn le comas sònraichte ainmichte  _ draoidheachd _ agus 's urrainn dhaibh dealbh a' chuirp atharrachadh no àrdachadh a fhalach gnèthean sìtheile às na sùilean nan duine bàsmhor. They copy loved ones’ faces. They could be anyone. They beget terror!”

“Evelyn, I swear,” says Jemma. “If she spends the night wide awake because your stories gave her nightmares, you’ll be the one who’s going to comfort her.”

Evelyn sighs. “You’re no fun, ma! Besides, bha aon creideamh seasmhach gun robh na daoine-sìdh fann an aghaidh iarann fuar mar eisimpleir, a' cur cruadha air ur doras. We have iron on our door, even if there were fairies, they wouldn’t be able to come in. The English said that-”

Just as she finishes the sentence there’s the noise of a car driving into the pathway and Gereon and Susie both start barking as they run around the living room, back and forth from the door to the window, wiggling their tails as they use their paws to scratch against the entrance door.

“Creutairean os-nàdarrach!” yells Tiffany, kicking the Lego box and causing the coloured bricks to land on the carpet, covering it. “Sìthichean! Here!”

“I’m afraid that’s just your father, dear.”


	7. hay rides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

"Fitz, are you busy?" asks Jemma as she steps into Fitz's room. She leaves the door opens and leans against the doorframe, looking at him as he sits at his desk, his fingers swiftly moving over the keyboard.

"Does it look like I'm busy?" he replies without turning around.

"Actually, it does. But I made you some tea," she says, slightly lifting the tray she's holding - with tea and a plate with some Jaffa Cakes. For a moment the whole tray wobbles in her hands at the sudden and brusque movement, the flat surface of the inside his favourite mug oscillating precariously, ready to overflow.

"How to say no to that?" jokes Fitz.

"Listen, I know you're working and I promise it won't take long. I just need to talk to you for a second and I thought with tea you'd be-"

"Jemma." He pauses, turning his swivel chair around to face her. "Of course you can talk to me and you can do so with or without tea. Or Jaffa Cakes."

"Alright." She smiles hesitantly. "But you've got to promise me that you won't laugh."

"I won't," he says and gestures for her to come in and take place.

Tentatively she walks into the room and places the tray on his desk. She glances at his laptop and his work and then looks at him as he takes off his glasses, before taking place on his bed. While she plays with his duvet by braiding its extremities, a familiar and comfortable silence settles between them.

"How's your work doing?"

"Rather well, but I very much doubt you're here because of my writing."

She sighs. "Yes, I'm not here because of that. Promise me you won't laugh."

"I promise," says Fitz, placing his right hand on his heart. "So, what's going on?"

"Suppose I told Milton that I'd go with him on a hay ride.”

“Cabbage head Milton? _Hi! I’m Milton_-Milton.” He pauses. “That Milton?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not.” Snorts Fitz. “Do go on.”

“Suppose I thought that a hay ride was one of things where you slide down straw-stacks or whatever they’re called, like the one Hartley goes on and on about in his novel. And I thought- Suppose I said yes because I thought, nay was convinced, that he’d never find a place where those things are allowed or done or whatever.”

“You mean that thing’s not a hay ride?” he asks, his voice equally surprised and shocked.

Jemma shakes her head.

“What- what is a hay ride, Jemma?”

“You sound like Maggie Smith in _Downton Abbey_." She laughs. "Something very, very American, I guess? Or Canadian, I don't know. Apparently, you sit down in a cart filled with hay and some tractor drives you around.”

“Are you sure that’s a thing?” He pauses, attentively looking at her to find any trace of humour on her face - piggy eyes or laughter. “Jemma, are you making fun of me?”

“God, no! Or I wouldn’t be here.” She covers her face with her hands and exhales sharply. “I don’t want to go and even if, I wouldn’t go with Milton. I’d have to do all the talking and that’s too much of an effort, there’s better ways to spend my free time. Gosh, suppose he asks me out for dinner? I can’t do that, Fitz!”

“Well, you could always come up with an excuse, couldn’t you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, tell him that the two of us are going on a date.” Fitz stops, covering his mouth with his hand as his words settle in the air between them. It’s a mortifying ordeal to have blurted out such a suggestion, too amused by Jemma’s problem to think straight and try to pretend that his feelings for her haven’t changed, try to pretend that a date isn’t something he’d quite like to go on,

“Dinner,” he quickly corrects himself. The sounds come out as an indistinguishable mess. “I meant dinner. You could tell Milton that we’re going out for dinner.”

“I can’t!”

“Why on earth not?”

“You’re in Cornwall that weekend. There’s that thing you’ve been talking about for weeks and Milton knows about that. And if he doesn’t know, he’ll find out eventually. People gossip, Fitz, they do small talk. Our other flatmates aren’t exactly discreet.”

He sighs. “There’s only one thing left to do then?”

“And what is that, pray? Leave the country? Get a new identity? Never leave the house again until it’s winter? I can’t say no, I’m the one who brought it up.”

“Nonsense.” Fitz pauses as he tries to muster enough courage, confidence and self-containment to go on talking. “You could come with me. It would be a pity if you were to leave the country, I’d have to follow you and I have absolutely no intention to do so.”

“You mean going to Cornwall with you?”

“No, uncle Tom Cobley.” He laughs. “Of course I mean with me.”

“With you? To Cornwall?”

He nods. “It’s not the first time we go away for a couple of days, is it? That would be quite believable and- what changed?”

“Nothing,” says Jemma and looks away out of the window. It sounds appealing and he is right, they’ve spent many a thousand weekends away from their flat. Touring England as if they were tourists, they always had such a lark. But she can’t do that anymore, not when she’s been feeling things and he started to take great pains to be unknowable most of the time. “Nothing of consequence.”

“I say, are you quite alright?”

“Yes, we just can’t act like we usually do. Same bed and all-”

“I wasn’t- Jemma, do you really think so badly and so little of me as to suggest-”

“No!” She all but yells. She’s the one who spent years making innuendos and sneaking into his bed and asking him to join her in the bathtub as soon as the occasion allowed it. It seems very unfair to blame him when she’s making herself feel uncomfortable by exaggerating the importance of each moment spent together, of every joke and glance and playful tease.

”I could never think badly of you. Never that. I know you, Fitz, and you’ve always been quite the gentleman. I just-” she stops.

“Listen, if we do go to Cornwall together, you can sleep in another hotel altogether if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want, Fitz,” she replies dryly. 

So this is what Fitz always means when he calls her out on being too English, she thinks. Englishness - prim, proper and bottled up: you don’t speak about your feelings and perhaps you don’t even think about them. What does it feel like, she wonders, to have the right words and not to be out of touch with one’s emotions, to have them rolling and rapid, to own them?

“Then what do you want, Jemma?” asks Fitz, looking at her. His gaze is piercing, inquisitive, scrutinized and there’s a touch of tenderness and worry in his eyes.

“I want-” She stops and gets up, taking his hand. Her finger linger on the back of his hand, dancing on his soft skin. “I want to- I don’t want to go to a hay ride with Milton, I know that much. I’d rather go to Cornwell with, well, you. And I’m sure we can arrange… something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was today years old when I learned that hay rides are a thing. And then for some reason, I was utterly convinced it was something like sliding down a straw-stack (as described by L.P. Hartley in "The Go-Between") - oh well, the more you know.


	8. playing pranks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd.

"Hunter?" asks Fitz as he walks into the kitchen, a dirty mug and an empty and wrecked package of Digestives in his hands.

There's a copy of _ Two Gentlemen of Verona _on the table in front of him and Hunter is furiously scribbling notes on a piece of paper. The blank page is filling quickly with words written down in illegible cursive, while the play itself is a mess of notes and post-its in different colours - they fill the pages and stick out of them, the small volume doubled in size. 

For a moment there's complete silence but for the sound of the mug put into the kitchen sink and the muffled voices coming from the headphones attached to Hunter's laptop - a woman's voice, though it's impossible to say what she's saying.

"What?" replies Hunter, barely looking up as he shoves a portion of baked beans into his mouth. The spatula he's using is too large for the tin and his movements are fumbling and impatient, abrupt as if he's losing his patience.

"Jemma's train arrives at four," explains Fitz and sits down at the kitchen table. He pushes Hunter's laptop to the side, closer to the window, to be able to look at his friend in the face.

"I know," says Hunter. He sounds completely uninterested and goes on writing, underlining a couple of words and flipping through the pages of the book to reach the notes section. Then, he says, "This is the fifth time you tell me today."

"I think we should go out. Do the shopping, buy some cutlery." Fitz pauses and grabs a pen from Hunter's pencil case and a sheet of paper from the pile that rests on cupboard next to the table. "We only own that one spatula."

They've been living there for more than two months, although the number of days spent solely at the flat can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Too busy and never there, they've been living on sandwiches and take-away. The fridge is empty but for some beers and a jar of marmalade, the latter having probably developed a life of its own, and they never got around to buying cutlery: A rather Spartan existence that suits them fine, but is hardly acceptable when guests are coming to stay for longer than an afternoon.

"Is that a problem?" Hunter pauses. "My niece didn't complain."

"Your niece is six, Hunter, of course she didn't complain. She must have thought this to be rather exciting."

"So you reckon it's time to go and buy stuff?" He jokes. 

"You know that if Jemma sees that we only own a spatula and nothing else, we'll never hear the end of it, right?"

"That's your problem, Fitz."

For a moment silence falls and they both look outside the window. The sky is dark and it's pouring, the rain comes down in buckets and falls almost perpendicular against the window: large puddles on the street and fallen leaves resting on the crispy and moving surfaces.

"We're not even sure she'll get here at four," says Hunter at last. "For all we know, there could be major delays on the London Marylebone-Stratford Upon Avon line."

"I don't think so, she'd have said something. Which means that she'll arrive at eleven past four and we're here without food or cutlery."

"Maybe, but the weather's shite. I'm not going to leave the flat, mate, but Morrisons is what, half a mile from the station which means that you can just as easily leave early and do the shopping beforehand."

"And have her asking about it? No, thank you."

Hunter shrugs. "You should have thought about it in time. Jemma's your guest, not mine."

"You say as if you aren't friends with her."

"I'm her friend alright, but you're the one who invited her here, which makes it your problem. Not to mention that you're the one who's in love with her and spends most of his time at her side. Milton would say that the two of you are together the whole damn time."

"When did you start quoting Milton?" asks Fitz. "And I'm not in love with her."

"Sure, Fitz, you keep telling yourself that."

Fitz shakes his head and laughs. "This wouldn't have happened had you listened properly. You said it was furnished!"

"It is! I never said we'd have flatware, I never thought I'd have to ask. And it's not my bloody fault, is it? It's Jemma who refused to even audition for this thing, we'd have found something better. Instead, she chose that TV show over this."

"Opportunity."

"She's a coward. It's that one review and we both know it, she never got over being called one of the many upper-class girls who decide to take on acting out of boredom." Hunter pauses and east another portion of beans. "You get hammered, it happens. And that show she's on-"

"Is shite," says Fitz, cutting him off.

"It really is. I think Jemma stopped doing this out of fun, to think that we all promised each other that we'd never try to please audience and critics alike. I don't know, people are always going to complain: sometimes they're right and sometimes they're not."

"But you've got to stand by your decisions."

"That."

"Back to the shopping though," says Fitz as Hunter sighs dramatically. "What do you want to have for dinner?"

"I don't know. I'm too busy to come up with a menu, can we do this another time? In a couple of days or-"

"No!" protests Fitz. "We own one spatula. One. I don't even know how that came to be. As for the food-"

"We'll go out for dinner or something," suggests Hunter. He looks at Fitz, the next bite of beans in precarious equilibrium on the smooth surface of the spatula. "I've got an idea."

"Go on then," says Fitz, sincerely hoping that the scenario involves both him and Hunter going to the supermarket despite the bad weather.

"We should prank Jemma, tell her that one of us hid all the cutlery. Unfortunately, we've been too busy and failed to notice that it was missing, forgot that we hid it. It'll buy us a day or two depending on how much time you two spend in the kitchen."

"She's never going to believe that."

"Why not? You're an Olivier winning actor, I'm sure you can pull this off. I can direct you, we should stage it. Forget the two gentlemen, this is better."

"She won't!"

"Want to bet?" asks Hunter, and smirks.

Fitz sighs. "Alright, how much?"

"A bill."

"A bill? I was going to say ten quid and a pint, but sure. It's your money, you can do whatever you like with it."

"Fitz, don't you dare tell her that it's a joke or I swear to God-"

"I won't."

"Swear it-"

"I swear. But you know that Jemma isn't that stupid, don't you? Way too English and quite posh? Yes, most definitely. Stupid? Not really."

Hunter grins. "So we're doing this?"

"Yes. Can't wait for you to hand me £100, you'll never hear the end of it."

"I wouldn't be so sure." He pauses. "So you're on?"

Fitz nods.

"Good."

"Cracking." Fitz pauses. "Why would Jemma believe us?"

"Because we're doing pretty well, aren't we? We're responsible adults and all of that. And we have a couple of carved pumpkins in the garden, no one with carved pumpkins in their garden survives this long with nothing but a spatula in their kitchen."


End file.
